


A Handful Of Burns, Is All

by chasing_the_sterek



Series: Under And Over [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Peter, BAMF Peter Quill, Branding, Burns, But it's okay, Colour-Changing Tattoos, Dad Yondu Udonta, Drugged Peter, Gen, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Magical Tattoos, Peter Feels, Peter Quill Needs a Hug, Peter Quill is Clever, Peter gets tortured, Peter ships Yondu and Kraglin, Sassy Peter, Scarred Peter, Scars, Smart peter, Star-Lord is Awesome, Tattooed Peter, Tattoos, Vents & Ventilation Shafts, and a few less drugs please, evidently not, i make up some crew members because nobody told me i couldn't, is that a tag, peter's used to being alone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5523803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasing_the_sterek/pseuds/chasing_the_sterek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To say that Peter was expecting to be kidnapped that dreary, rainy, Xandar Monday would be such a massive lie it would set off lie detectors on the other side of the universe. Peter suspects that the setting-off of the majority of the universe's lie detectors at the same time may be A Thing that upsets more than a handful of people, and was therefore possibly a Not Good Thing To Do.</p><p>For this reason, he doesn't say <i>finally, losers</i> or <i>took you long enough</i> when about seven burly men herd him into an alleyway and circle him like they're hunting something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Bit Of Help? No, Wait, I Got It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realise how much non-consensual drug use this had until I was tagging it.
> 
> I'm sorry.

To say that Peter was expecting to be kidnapped that dreary, rainy, Xandar Monday would be such a massive lie it would set off lie detectors on the other side of the universe. Peter suspects that the setting-off of the majority of the universe's lie detectors at the same time may be A Thing that upsets more than a handful of people, and was therefore possibly a Not Good Thing To Do. For this reason, he doesn't say _finally, losers_ or _took you long enough_ when about seven burly men herd him into an alleyway and circle him like they're hunting something. The men are Oitsoys - a race bred for incredible strength but sadly not intelligence - and that race so rarely acts of their own accord Peter knows immediately that these guys have been hired. Oitsoys are hella cheap to hire - practically no brain means no conscience which means they'll fight for you no matter what side you're on - so the guy who's behind the kidnapping must be a real cheapskate.

They start off the already-crappy kidnapping by injecting him with something that makes him extremely dizzy and nauseous, leaving him heaving up bile (he hasn't eaten anything yet) into the gutter.

"That was s'posed to knock 'im out." One of the men slurs at a pace a snail could outstrip in five seconds flat.

"Uhhhhh. . ." Another grunts. "Give 'im anoth'r dose?"

All of their speech is agonisingly slow. Peter guesses it's hard to talk quickly when you have to remember how to speak every three words.

He vomits again. The Terran scrabbles at his wrist to where he knows his Ravager. . . _something_ is, tapping out a tune twice over to send out the distress signal. He wishes he could send one to the guardians, too, but their current messaging system requires fishing his padi out of his bag (which the Oitsoy men have taken), typing out a message, and then sending it. Peter makes a mental note to get Rocket to help him update their messaging later - maybe they could have a wrist implant thing, like the Ravagers, only on their left wrists instead of their right?

"We don' have any more," a third says sluggishly, eyes drooping with no brain to tell them to stay open.

"Jus' use th's." The first says, slurring again as he hands over another syringe.

The four Oitsoys who haven't spoken yet all leap forwards to grab Peter's arms and pin them to his sides at the same time. All this achieves is a confused, flailing scramble, during which Peter gets thrown left and right and even into the air in one especially nauseous moment.

He pukes again, and he's pretty sure this load of vomit lands on one of the men. _Ha,_ he thinks vindictively, even as the new needle is stabbed into his arm and the plunger pressed. _Serves you right, bitch._

This time, he does black out.  
**  
**@#£% &**&%£#@  
  
Peter comes to with an agonisingly painful headache and a sudden hatred of Mondays.

"Ah, little Star-Lord," an unfamiliar voice sing-songs. Peter rolls his heavy head until he can see the little weasel of a man, sending the strongest glare he can as the fucker grins. "I see you have finally awoken. I was beginning to grow bored."

Peter coughs and tries not to think about why his stomach's attempting to turn into a washing machine. "If you're trying to scare me, it's not working, man. You're just coming across as Creepy Grandpa No1."

Creepy Grandpa No1 smiles slowly, displaying five rows of brown, rotting teeth (nice). "Maybe that's what I'm aiming for," he says.

Peter rolls his eyes. He's sick of this guy already, but he gets the impression that he's gonna be stuck here a while if Creepy Gramps has anything to do with it. "Not the greatest tactic to go for," he says. "Nobody's ever gonna take you seriously."

"My Oitsoys take me seriously." Creepy Grandpa pouts - no, he literally _pouts._ This guy is such an amateur it's not even funny.

Peter rolls his eyes again. "Dude, they're _Oitsoys._ They take everyone seriously but themselves, and the whole point of them is a cheap, strong army who're too dumb to question motives or strategy."

"No matter," Creepy Grandpa says confidently after a long moment of sullen pouting. "On with the task at hand, and this time you shall not sidetrack me."

The Terran sighs. "Whaddaya want?"

"I require information." The idiot says dramatically, looking like a fool as he puts his hands on his hips.

"On?" Peter mutters. He's been kidnapped and interrogated because someone thought he stole their daughter's cat before - if he's super lucky, the kidnapper just wants something menial and unimportant.

"The guardians, and those Ravager scum you grew up with."

Ah. So not something Peter's going to share, then. "Sorry, not sorry, Creepy Gramps, but no can do. I'm not telling you anything about them."

"Not even under an extremely potent truth serum?"

Peter tries not to pale. Truth serums were made illegal not even two weeks after their creation because they were: too unbearably painful, a serious breach of privacy, and dirty, dirty cheating. He's never been on either end of one before, but he's not exactly leaping with joy to rectify that.

"That's illegal," Peter says in as unreadable a voice as he can, licking his dry lips nervously. "Which means you went to the black market, right? And you got me on Xandar, so. . . how's Isla doing these days?"

Creepy Grandpa growls. "I don't know your _Isla,_ but I'm sure you'll tell me all about her in a minute, right?"

And he plunges a whole syringeful of truth serum into Peter's veins.  
_  
That's enough to last for at least a day and a half,_ Peter thinks as what feels like flaming hands press down on him from every direction and hands of ice push out his organs from the inside. _Shit._

He blacks out again.  
**  
**@#£% &**&%£#@  
  
For one glorious moment when he comes to, he thinks he's both alone and back on a ship with crew he trusts (with either the guardians or the Ravagers), or at least has an uneasy alliance with (the Nova Corps).

Then he spots Weasel Guy from before, sitting at a desk (since when has _that_ been there?) directly across the room and sipping olive tea, and Peter slumps, just a teensy bit.  
_  
You're still here, Grandpa?_ He intends to say. _Just as expected - paedophilic haha-my-victim-is-unconscious staring._

"I had hoped you wouldn't be here," he says instead, with a sharp jab of pain he at first associates with the knockout drug from earlier.

Peter blinks, and for one long moment he doesn't know why he just said something different to what he intended.

Then he remembers the truth serum.

There's another sharp jab (he doesn't write it off as the wrong thing this time) in his temples, and he closes his eyes for a moment to make sure he stays awake.

"What's your name?" Creepy Grandad asks, testing if it's working.

"You already know my name," Peter says, testing something of his own.  
_  
Ha._ He can avoid the truth if he wants to - it hurts more than telling the truth, yeah, but any way at getting back at this guy is a good way in Peter's book - and he can probably go on tangents too.

Creepy Gramps looks suitably confused. "This worked on all the others. Why isn't it working properly? Star-Lord, how did you evade the serum?"

"Others?" Peter says, eyes blazing with anger. "You did this to _others?"_

The man looks vaguely sheepish. Peter's too caught up in the fact that there were others dragged into this to think about his victory in changing the subject. "They were necessary. You're a hard man to prepare for, Mr Quill - the only Terran in the open universe, the only Terran not on Terra. I had to research all sorts of things - what works on Terrans? What doesn't? How flexible are you, and how easily can you escape certain bonds? It was a pain to kidnap so many of your people and not get detected."

Peter's mouth goes dry. He's not sure if he's absolutely furious or just scared. The tiny part of him that's not feeling high levels of emotion at the moment strongly suspects it might be a bit of both. "You kidnapped _Terrans!?"_

"It was _necessary."_

"They were fucking _innocents!"_ Peter yells as loudly as he can. He doesn't care that he's lost his cool, or that Murder Grandpa's smiling like it's all going to plan, or that his wrists are starting to bleed from how much he's struggling. "How - how _dare you_ \- they would have had _families - homes -_ fucking _lives_ \- how could you just _rip that away from them,_ they didn't _deserve_ to die -"

Murder Guy just looks fucking _amused._ "I think, Mr Quill, that you should worry more for yourself than the others that came before you. If they all died. . ." the murderer's eyes flick up to make eye contact with Peter, head still turned down from where he was looking at the table. Mr Murder slowly and deliberately picks up a long-ish pole that has one end coated in protective rubber, then transfers it to an open fire one of the Oitsoys has just set and holds it there for a long couple of minutes.

Peter feels his skin pale. He's not going to. . . is he? "Are you. . ."

"Going to burn you?" The man smirks when Peter just trails off. "Why, yes, I am. Not nervous, are you?"

And damn, Peter can't lie. His situation is getting rapidly more annoying by the second. How d'you skirt around the whole truth while telling enough of the truth to not upset the truth serum currently running through your veins?

Peter notices how much Murder Man is sweating. It might just be the heat of the fire, but. . . "Not as nervous as you look. This your first torturing?"

"No," Grandpa Murder says. "My seventeenth, actually. But no matter. Thanks to my . . . _extensive_ research" - the guy smirks again as Peter growls - "I know exactly where to burn you so it hurts the most."

"How nice of you." Peter mutters. The truth serum stabs him with a knife of searing hot (hah) pain for the sarcasm, but since it's theoretically not a lie he's able to say the words.

"Indeed."

Murder Dude slips around behind Peter's chair, effectively putting himself out of sight, lifts the guardian's shirt, and lays the full, searing length of the white-hot rod on his back.

It feels like his skin's trying to rip itself apart and put itself together at the same time. He's melting and he's imploding and he's on _fire._ He can feel every inch of that fucking brand on his back (where there are lots of sensitive nerves plus one human spine, fuck, this guy _has_ researched, _god it hurts fuck fuck fuck fucking shit)._

Peter _screams._  
**  
**@#£% &**&%£#@  
  
The Terran jerks awake, immediately starting to struggle upon reflex before the pain all comes surging back in like a blanket being thrown over his head and he's forced to stop moving. His back's tender and sore (he can feel the burns starting to blister a bit), and the uncaring, splinter-filled wooden chair doesn't exactly help matters. He's thirsty and hungry, too, but they're insignificant needs, paling in comparison to the pain he's in. Peter suddenly remembers the way Creepy Murderer was sitting at the desk last time he woke up; his head snaps up automatically, checking for dangers, and his back twinges grumpily.

He's alone.

Peter lets his shoulders slump, briefly attempting to curl up into a miserable ball but having to stop before he even gets a quarter of the way through due to both the pain in his back and his bindings, which are very possibly tighter than before. A hissed curse winds its way through clenched teeth in the face of this fresh wave of agony, but he otherwise doesn't (can't) do much.

Peter closes his eyes and tries to think of a way out. He could tell the guy some fake weaknesses, sure, but where would it get him? He's not even sure if he's on a spaceship anymore - he could be in a random barn in a random desert on a random planet somewhere, orbiting some sort of random planet or star.

He thinks about the last time he was awake - however many hours it was ago now - and remembers the serum. Murder Man said something to one of his cronies about bringing another dose in the day after the next one. Did that mean that it wore off?  
_  
I'm a girl,_ he tries to say, just to test it.

"I'm a boy," comes out instead.

Still active, then.

 _I don't like the way Rocket makes 'dumb Terran' jokes._ "I think Rocket's jokes are awesome."  
_  
Come to think of it, I'm awesome too._ "I think I have depression but I don't want to waste anyone's time asking what the symptoms are so I can know for certain."

Fuck. Too much truth.

Peter can feel his pain lifting, though, and when he twists around to inspect the places that he'd previously spotted had cuts from the wrist ties (yeah, his back twinges agonisingly, but he needs to _check)_ , he actually _sees_ them start to heal.

Well then. Little truths can't hurt, right?  
__  
I like bright lights the best becomes "I prefer soft lighting."  
__  
I hate doing barrel rolls, and the presence of the team means that I finally have an excuse to not do them becomes "I love doing fancy manoeuvres in the Milano more than anything, but I'm not sure how well the crew would take to being tossed about just 'cause I'm bored of flying in a straight line, so I haven't done any adrenaline-rush flying since the battle six months ago."  
__  
I'm a brunet becomes "I've got reddish hair."  
__  
I've had an ice cream recently becomes "I miss ice cream. Why doesn't the rest of the universe have ice cream?"  
__  
I have over twenty friends, 'cause I'm popular like that becomes "I don't have very many friends."  
_  
I actually hate Groot. Who likes him, anyway?_ becomes "I love Groot. It's very possible that he's my favourite, but then it's also very possible that Gamora, Rocket, and Drax are my favourites too, so I'm not sure who is really. Who couldn't like Groot, anyway?"

Peter smiles softly, eyes half closed. It's better, the pain; more manageable, like chopping a tree into little pieces when you want to carry it instead of hauling the whole fucking trunk all the way.

He feels blissed out and happy, despite his situation; in this moment, he doesn't feel anything but contentment and the confidence that a) the Ravagers are coming for him (and possibly the guardians), and b) he's too fucking stubborn to die.

Of course, that's the moment when Creeps comes sauntering in, a strangely-shaped rod in his hand, and shatters the moment into a million pieces.

Peter makes a snap decision and pretends to still be unconscious.

He hears Creeps' steps slow until he's stopped. He feels breath on his face and a source of intense heat _(warm-blooded species,_ whispers a voice in his mind that sounds suspiciously like Kraglin) close to one of his cheeks. He can hear soft breathing, the quiet shuffle of clothes as limbs move, the subtle tap as something metal is placed on a harder, denser material.

"Is he unconscious?" Creeps whispers. Peter quashes the urge to wrinkle his nose in disgust as stale, dry air wafts over his face.

A movement like something's been startled into action. "Yeh?" another voice guesses. It's slow, gruntlike - _Oitsoy,_ Kraglin's voice tells him, and leaves it at that. "I guess."

A tiny sigh makes Peter's hair move a bit. "I don't want a guess, fleabag, I want an answer!"

The sudden shout makes him jump, but since nobody reacts he thinks (hopes) that nobody was looking - the Oitsoy too busy watching Creeps and vice versa. There's a slap, next, and a quiet whimper. (Oitsoys are used to being treated like trash. Doesn't mean they have to like it.)

There's the sound of movement from in front of him. Peter fights to keep his breathing even, struggles to make sure that his eyes don't move around even the tiniest bit. _Creeps can't know I'm awake. He can't._

_Please._

Creeps hums like he's considering something, having apparently forgotten about the still-whimpering Oitsoy behind him. The Terran hears footsteps move away, toward where the tap came from earlier, and there's a little _fwoomph_ as something's ignited - fire.

If Creeps is gonna burn Peter anyway, then there's next to no point in pretending to be unconscious, but Peter gets a gut feeling that Creeps is testing for that, so he doesn't move.  
_  
"First rule'a bein' a Ravager, boy," Yondu growls down at a ten-year-old Peter. "You follow yer gut, no matter what. If it says that someone's a no-good piece of scum, then they mos' likely are. If it says that you need to run -"_

 _"Run like hell's behind you." Peter interrupts, nodding with the gentle, sincere seriousness of a child. "You feel something in your gut, a pull, of sorts, and you follow that pull until your gut's happy and you're out of danger."_  
  
Peter makes himself stay still. He makes himself keep breathing - _in out in out in out,_ and he makes himself count the steps between the _fwoomph_ sound and the breaths that make strands of his hair tickle his head.  
__  
Six seconds.  
  
Creeps' steps, if Peter remembers correctly (and he's pretty sure he does), are half a meter long each. Six seconds multiplied by half a meter is three meters, so the fire's three meters away. When he'd looked around the room for the first time, he'd noticed a door next to a little pit (but he hadn't really thought about either much) - if the fire's in the pit, then the pit's three meters away, and if the pit's three meters away then the door's four and a half.

Peter listens to Creeps' content humming as he does the maths. It's a war song, an old battle chant of the Kree; Creeps seems to know it well, and he loops the song over and over as he prepares whatever the fuck he's going to do to Peter next.

Peter really, really doesn't want a repeat of last time - the burning, blistering pain, the feeling of his skin melting. His back's been hurting steadily more for a while now; he guesses it's from sitting stiffly in the exact same place for a long time.

The humming becomes just a happy noise of self-congratulations as Creeps apparently finishes off his task. Creeps stands up (rustle of clothes; breath returns to blowing across face; scratching and clinking stops) and strolls the three meters back over to the fire. Peter allows himself the tiniest wince at the pain before schooling his expression back into _unconscious and dead to the world._

There's a _shhhhhhink_ of something long and made of metal being picked up by someone who _wants_ the other person to wake up. Peter's curiosity burns at him, urging him to _peek, just a little, you won't get caught,_ but he quashes the feeling as best he can.

He doesn't dare look.

Creeps starts to hum again - Peter didn't notice he'd ever stopped - and it sounds almost disappointed. Peter wants to know why so, so badly, but he can't exactly pop his eyes open and go _'Hey, man, whassup? You seem down. Wanna tell me why and then go spend some time with your therapist?_

The Oitsoy, however, is not in that situation (though Peter's surprised there's enough room in his tiny, smaller-than-a-pea brain for curiosity. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

A throat being cleared nervously. The noise is slow, deep, and definitely not from Creeps - the Oitsoy. "Are you alright?" It says bravely. Peter's actually kind of impressed.

"Oh, I'm fine," Creeps says cheerfully. "Just wondering when our little friend here's going to stop pretending to be unconscious and wake up."

Bluff. It has to be a bluff. Like when your parents want to know if you're awake so they go _"I know you're awake,"_ and you open your eyes before it even occurs to you that if you're good enough at pretending there's no way they could possibly know.

Peter's good enough.

He keeps his eyes shut and his breathing even.

There's a tense silence as both of them look at him. He can feel their stares making his neck prickle.

Peter doesn't look.

He thinks about the pain of the interrogation before. It's not the worst pain he's ever felt - c'mon, man, he's died once - but it's definitely not the least, either, and he's not exactly eager to be burnt again.

Peter doesn't look.

He thinks about his team. Groot would be terrified - fire's the only thing that hurts him - but he'd be totally chill, probably asking Creeps about his day and how he's doing and _oh, would you like any help opening that can?_ He would say Gamora would handle it like a champ, but she'd probably be out of this situation by now and already halfway across the galaxy, leaving Creeps and all of his Oitsoy thugs behind her in pieces. Drax would be blinking at them, waiting for the right opportunity to smash his bonds apart and pounce, but the whole time he'd be thinking that the pain was his penance for letting his wife and daughter die. Rocket would have turned off his pain receptors so that he's able to just sit there and insult without being fazed by the fact that his shirt's on fire - he'd probably have already taken his bonds apart and put them back together several times _just for kicks._ Peter thinks about how he's the weakest one of their five, because yeah, they all have weaknesses, but he has the most and he's the soft squishy Terran -  
__  
Peter doesn't -  
  
Peter looks.

He thinks about his mom, and how he failed her when she needed him the most. He thinks about the way Groot has grown flowers for everyone but him, and how he must have done something horrendous to earn the hatred of the kindest tree in the universe. He thinks about the way Rocket doesn't seem trust him with Groot, and how he probably wouldn't trust himself with Groot either - have you seen how clumsy he is with other people's important things? He thinks about how every time he tries to help Gamora she gives him a look like he's some dirt on her shoe she can't scrape off no matter how sharp a knife she uses. He thinks about how he manages to accidentally insult Drax every time they speak, and how he probably painfully reminded him of his wife and daughter that time he said _hey, do you want to go to your home planet, big guy? See your family?_

Peter thinks about all of this as he opens his eyes and sees Creeps grinning at him. He thinks about this and he hates himself for all of his mistakes as Creeps lifts a rod with a spiral that has four branches ([picture here if you're interested in how it looks](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b7/c4/66/b7c466a51f0ec10570c3bbaa472087ab.jpg)) and starts to move towards him. Peter about this and he hates himself for being so weak as he watches the glowing, white-hot rod float closer and closer.  
__  
I deserve this.  
**  
**@#£% &**&%£#@  
  
"What are their weaknesses?" Creeps demands, shoving the brand harder into Peter's arm and twisting it a little. Peter clenches his teeth around a scream and pictures himself biting off one of Creeps' fingers. "The green assassin, the rodent, the Destroyer, the useless tree?"

Peter narrows his eyes. Useless tree? _Rodent?_ Rocket's more of a person than this guy is. And, anyway, there's literally zero percent chance of him giving Creeps the team's weaknesses when he doesn't even know their names.

Peter's mind flits between ideas wildly before finally settling on a plan. He makes a big show of slumping and looking defeated. "Go to. . . go to Pyu," he instructs softly, faux-reluctantly, like he's given in. He lets out a deliberately bad (but much-needed) cough.

"The fire planet?" Creeps says eagerly.

Peter decides that Creeps is a massive idiot. Who the hell thinks that a Ravager-turned-Guardian-of-the-Galaxy cracks after only half an hour of non-stop torture?

"Yeah," Peter chokes out. During his next sentence his voice gets harder and stonier until he's practically spitting his words. "Go to the tallest volcano, and throw yourself in it."

Creeps' happy mood dissolves instantly. "I should have known, Mr Quill," he says softly, putting the rod down on the table and casting lowered eyes across the rest of what is undoubtedly his collection of torture instruments. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Peter says brightly. His body hurts, yeah, but what's this guy playing at? His method of torture's confusing and irritating. "Just let me go and we'll be cool."

"I don't think so," he hums as he applies a knife to Peter's arm and pulls it down. Peter idly notices through the sudden onslaught of pain that it's one of those hot-blade ones that burn as well as cut. "How do you control Yondu Udonta's arrow?"

The Guardian laughs through the agony and tries to ignore the smell of singed flesh. "Aw, man, I don't even know." Theoretically, he does know how it works- whistling - but he doesn't know much beyond that, so he's just stating a fact, really. The truth serum prods him huffily but that's easy enough to ignore. "Ask Yondu, not me."

Creeps' face twitches like he wants to scowl, but he manages to keep it under control. He presses the knife a little bit deeper and starts to curve it to the left as he says, "You've been around him for about two decades," Creeps informs him (like he doesn't already know, pff. Peter's the one who's put up with Yondu for twenty years, not Creeps), "don't you have at least some knowledge?"

"He sings," Peter says plainly. It's true, if you count whistling as singing (which Peter totally does).

Creeps frowns in confusion. "He. . . what?"

"He sings," Peter repeats. "Yondu sings to his arrow, and it dances to the music. I dunno if you have to be holding the arrow sheath or not, though, so you'll have to ask him on that front."

Creeps stares at the ceiling. He's too distracted to keep the knife in Peter's wound, and the blade's basically just pulled out absently. It hurts, but way less than when it was still in the wound, so Peter counts that as a win. Another win is the fact that, for some reason, the Oitsoy has left the room.

"Y'know, there's one thing you really shouldn't underestimate in life," Peter says casually.  
__  
Three feet to the fire pit.  
  
Creeps' attention snaps back to him. "And what is that?"  
__  
Four feet to the door.  
  
Peter braces himself for the inevitable pain that's going to follow, and pounces onto the Kree.

For a beautiful fifteen seconds or so, Creeps is too surprised to fight back much, and Peter manages to roll/carry them halfway to the fire pit before he starts retaliating. When Creeps _does_ retaliate, however, it's not without vigour or intelligence.

Creeps aims his hits towards already existing wounds - Peter's burns, his brand marks, the long knife slash/burn on his arm - and his aiming is pretty good. It's painful, especially considering the burns Creeps left on the arches of his feet when Peter was blacked out. Creeps is at full strength, and Peter's not even at half, and the murderer is intelligent, precise with his hits, but Creeps is at one (major) disadvantage. 

He wasn't brought up by Ravagers.

Peter leans forward and bites Creeps' shoulder hard enough to make a vampire blanch. He kicks in between the man's legs with enough force to render him infertile and childless for the rest of his life. He scrabbles at Creeps' face furiously, aiming for eyes and nose and mouth. He smacks pressure points with pinpoint accuracy and he uses his weight to force Creeps back, further towards the fire pit, where there's still a naked flame blazing away happily. He uses his bare feet to rake toenails down any skin he can reach, making sure to press hard enough to draw blood. He spits in Creeps' eyes so he can't see, and he rolls them so that the temporarily-blinded weasel of a man is disconcerted.

In short - Peter plays dirty.

In short - Peter pushes Creeps into the open fire and holds him there long enough to melt his skin and make him pass out from the pain (Peter leaves him lying there, clothes alight and sickly green-yellow skin bubbling slightly as he continues to burn).

In short - Peter _wins._

But he's not exactly in tip-top condition himself, and now that he's not furiously fighting for his life he notices a needle sticking out of his thigh. It's obviously been moved around vigorously, so whatever it was has been injected into him sometime during the fight, and the plunger's down all the way.

Peter's eyes widen, and he only just as time to yank it out and stagger vaguely towards the door before he's listing dangerously towards the side and collapsing bonelessly to the ground.  
**  
**@#£% &**&%£#@  
  
Peter wakes up to a too-bright light and too-loud gunfire. He wakes up to a furry face hovering over his - Rocket? What's he doing here? - with a worried expression.

"Pete?" Rocket's yelling. "Peter? Wake up, man, c'mon!"

Rocket's tiny hands slap his face furiously, making a _smack-smack-smack_ noise sound out, and for some reason Peter finds this absolutely hilarious.

Rocket notices that Peter's conscious around the same time as he starts to giggle uncontrollably.

"Dude, seriously?" Rocket shouts. "You scare the shit out of us with your _disappearing and then appearing collapsed in a wooden hut doorway, mysteriously wounded and unconscious with a massive syringe sticking out of my leg a few days later_ crap, and the first thing you do when you wake up is _laugh?_ What the fuck, man?"

Gamora's gun flashes. It paints the floor green every time it does, and all of the Oitsoys coming in for a hug (well, that's what Peter's assuming they want) topple like dominoes, clutching at their chests dramatically.

Peter laughs harder. Rocket scowls, but it's a weird scowl, like he thinks something's wrong with Peter, but there's nothing wrong with him, he's just _happy -_

"Is he okay?" Gamora asks, glancing back for a moment. Her gun carries on going _flash-flash-flash,_ and the Oitsoys keep falling, still holding hands to fake wounds as they fall.

Peter clocks something drifting lazily past in the breeze and plucks it out of the air. It's a little bit of Rocket's fur (he's tearing it out of the top of his head by the pawfuls, that's weird, Rocket why are you doing that), and Peter waves it a bit so he can watch the way it flutters.

"I don't think he is," Rocket says, scowling at Peter in that weird way again.

"I'm fur-fect," Peter giggles, wiggling the bit of fur around to emphasise the joke. Rocket scowls a different kind of scowl and steals it from him (back from him?). Peter pouts.

"Remember the syringe?" Rocket says to Gamora _(flash-flash-flash),_ waggling it to further his point. "I think it was filled with some kind of hallucinatory drug."

Gamora's gun stops going _flash-flash-flash_ and she and Rocket both turn to stare at Peter. Gamora and Rocket both have that I'm-concerned-for-you scowl on, which is weird. They're weird people, though. Gamora's _green,_ and Rocket's a _talking, bipedal raccoon._ Peter smiles at them anyway, because he's the only Terran not on Terra, so who's he to complain about oddities?

He suddenly notices a couple of shiny, floaty things in front of him, and he swats at them playfully. They're not annoying, per se, but they're cute, and he wants to catch one so he can see it better.

"What's he swatting at?" Gamora says. Peter frowns at her. Is she blind? They're right there. Maybe she needs glasses. Are glasses a thing in space?

"Hell if I know," Rocket snorts. "They're almost done with the fight. We should get him inside, just in case it's the sun."

"We don't know how long he's been out here for," Gamora agrees, and starts to haul him into a wooden hut.

"No." Peter whispers (he doesn't whimper. Ravagers don't whimper), shaking his head violently. _"No._ The nasty man is in there. He makes it _hurt."_

The two heave him back outside again. Drax and Groot are making quick work of tidying the Oitsoys into neat piles, the former bowing his head weirdly to each pile he completes and the latter putting a wreath of pretty flowers on top.

"What did he do to you?" Gamora asks, snagging Peter's attention as she tucks her hair behind one ear and carefully comes down to his eye level so he's not intimidated.

"He torch-ured me." Peter giggles. His back, arms, and feet hurt, but he barely notices over the hazy purple tint the world has adopted. The playful lights have gone somewhere, and he misses them.

Peter feels numb, and isn't that a weird contrast? Hurting so much he could cry and at the same time feeling so numb he could sleep for a decade.

Rocket eyes him from where he's protecting their little patch of safe ground. "He's high as a fucking kite."

"That's my reputation ru-wind," Peter sniggers. "M'not high," he adds suddenly, still laughing quietly. "Just. . . happy. _Man,_ I love you guys. You all make me happy, kay?"

Rocket rolls his eyes, but both of them look kinda happy themselves at the proclamation.

"Thank you, Peter," Gamora says, biting back a reluctant smile. "But can you tell us what he did to you? We need to know so we can help. We can make you stop hurting."

"Doesn't hurt." Peter says automatically, but then the haze lessens briefly, everything coming into focus, and a sudden onslaught of _hurtpainmiseryburningwhyiseverythingburningwhywhywhy_ turns those two words into a big dirty lie.

"Peter -"

"He asked me questions," Peter says, wide, sincere eyes locked on Gamora's. "An' when I wouldn' answer he. . . he. . ."

"He what, Pete?" Rocket prods softly. "What'd he do to ya?"

"He pun-ished me." Peter snorts at his own joke and dissolves into a giggle fit that lasts two straight minutes at least, and then gives an eye roll that lasts a little too long when nobody laughs. "C'mon, guys. I'm trying to be cheesy here but everyone seems to be laughtose intolerant."

That gets a reluctant smile from Rocket (he tries to hide it in his fur) and an accidental smile from Gamora (she tries to disguise it a grimace - _wounds from the fight, Peter, I don't heal **that** quickly)._ Those two things are enough for Peter, and as the purple haze lifts again - bringing another heavy wave of pain with it, _joy of fucking joys_ \- he smiles serenely and lets it pull him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There shalt be more! Seriously, Yondu hasn't even come in yet. . .
> 
> *waggles eyebrows excitedly*
> 
>  
> 
> By the way, [this is my tumblr if you want it.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/total-master-of-geekiness)


	2. A Slow Process

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's healing - slowly. He gets headaches a lot, and his burns hurt like all hell, but he's healing. It's all good.
> 
> Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ENTER SPACE DAD!
> 
> I'm pretty sure Yondu and Kraglin are super out of character, but it was fun writing their accents and I can't be bothered to change it, soooooo. . .

This time, Peter wakes up to a monster migraine and unbelievable pain on the soles of both feet, his back, his left forearm, and up by his shoulder on his right arm. He peels open gummy, tired eyes with a whine at the (not actually very) bright light and peers around carefully.

He notes red walls (paint, not blood - mostly, anyway), a darker red door with a silver lock-pad, and an old troll doll plonked unceremoniously onto a familiar low shelf that serves as a desk.

"My old room. . . ?" Peter whispers incredulously. Who'd have known that the Ravagers were sentimental enough to keep his room his? When Peter left he'd given it two months before his room was handed to some poor rookie who didn't fit any of the spare boots and walked around with gum guards.

The door hisses open after a moment, and Peter allows himself a small smile at the achingly familiar noise.

"Like yer room?" Yondu says with a little grin of his own.

"It's surprising," Peter admits. "I bet myself ten credits that you'd give it to someone else."

Yondu wrinkles his nose. "Well, either way yer gonna win, so s'pointless."

Peter rolls his eyes, choosing to overlook the fact that the Ravager hasn't actually answered the not-so-subtle question. "I forgot how irritating you were," he says, "and how ugly you are at close range."

Yondu feigns hurt. "Ya wound me, kid."

The Centaurion walks up to the bedside, heavy boots clunking on the metal grating as he comes closer, and eyes Peter's arm. Peter glances at it, curious about what attracted Yondu's attention.

There's a healing wound there. It's got four arms that branch out and curve very gently, and - it's the shape of the end of the brand Creeps used.

Creeps.

Everything comes back in a flood; the kidnapping, the drugs, the burning, the slicing, the fight, the new drugs.

Something must have shown in Peter's eyes, because Yondu's soften in understanding. He plops his blue ass onto the bed and Peter wraps his arms around his knees to make room (they've both grown since they last sat on Peter's bed together).

"Ya sure scared us, Pete," Yondu says. "Them guardians an' us Ravagers both. You'd been missin' three days, ya weren't respondin' ta any of our messages, an' suddenly yer light on the Bridge starts flashin' like crazy."

Yondu snorts and shakes his head despairingly. "The Bridge crew got so panicked they weren't coherent enough t'contact yer team. I had t'do it myself, an' they weren't exactly trustin' of me, I'll tell ya." His voice takes on a gruff, exaggerated version of Drax's voice. _"'What have you done to friend Quill?'_ like m'some fuckin' heartless pile'a space pirate shit an' not yer -"

Yondu cuts himself off abruptly, and if the lights were any brighter Peter would have bet ten _hundred_ credits that he would've seen Yondu's cheeks flushing the darker shade of blue that makes up his version of a blush.

Peter smirks. "Like I'm your what?"

Yondu growls and grumbles and threatens to whistle, but Peter can see the blush _without_ needing the lights now, and he gets the feeling that Yondu's wanted to acknowledge it for a long while now, so Peter stays silent and just watches. He gets the feeling he knows what Yondu's going to say anyway.

Yondu's red eyes shift to the side uncomfortably. His whole face and a good portion of his neck have gone a good few shades darker than normal, and his lips are being licked repeatedly with nerves, but Peter can see the words starting to come and he knows from experience that if he interrupts Yondu's silence now then the Centaurion will leave the room and he'll be avoided for a week.

"Like I'm yer. . . yer. . ." Yondu says slowly, ". . . like I'm yer father figure, or yer adoptive space dad -"

Peter decides that Yondu's discomfort has reached the peak level. "Look, I get it," He says, and pretends not to notice Yondu's gusty sigh of relief. "You're the closest thing I've ever had to a father, and I guess I must be the closest thing you've ever had to a kid. But you're more than my father figure - more like my, uh, my. . . actual father."

It's Peter's turn now to stumble over his words and blush a lot, but Yondu doesn't say anything. Peter ignored his blushing earlier - now the captain's repaying the favour, thus making any _you-owe-me_ s null and void. It's fine. They did it all the time, back when Peter was still living on the Ecelector and Yondu was still milking him for money and slave labour.

Yondu's mouth tilts up into a soft half-smile (if any of the crew members walked in now, then they'd have three arrow holes through their lungs before they could even think about telling someone else about the _little smile on the captain's face, I think he's soft for the kid, whaddaya think?)_ , and Peter feels kind of privileged to be the recipient of it.

"So," he says casually after a long but comfortable moment. "How's your relationship with Kraglin going?"

Yondu's face shutters, and he shoves Peter off of the bed. There's no remorse on his face.  
**  
**@#£% &**&%£#@  
  
Peter's almost asleep when he hears someone sneak into his room. They're silent and quick on their feet, so they're an assassin of some sort, but there's a quiet rustle of clothing as they move and two sets of breathing, so they're accompanied by someone who's both not touching the floor and not an assassin.  
_  
Gamora, with Rocket on her shoulders,_ Peter guesses, and relaxes again.

"Peter?" Gamora's voice says in a whisper, the woman herself finding a lamp and tapping the base to turn it on. A soft, dim, orange glow throws up the distorted shadow of a slim assassin with a small but reasonably bulky raccoon perched across her shoulders.

Peter mumbles something incoherent, too drowsy to do much more than blink at the two.

"Are you fully awake this time?" Gamora says, lips twitching.

"There was another time?" Peter mumbles.

Rocket snorts, hopping off of Gamora's shoulders and onto Peter's bed, only missing his feet by a hair's width. Gamora takes the opportunity to wander around and explore Peter's room. "Yeah. Everyone came in and you told us to go away because Groot and Drax's loud steps were _frightening the unicorns._ It was hilarious, but Gamora wouldn't let me laugh until we were outside."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Thanks, man. I can feel the support coming off you in waves."

Rocket hums. "Speaking of things coming off in waves, Quill, you need a shower. All I can smell is blood."

Wrinkling his nose, the Terran says, "That's no way to treat a downed man. You're a cruel person, Ranger Rick."

Rocket huffs, making himself more comfortable at the end of Peter's bed. "You're not a _downed man._ Ain't no such thing. You're just wounded. You'll get back up, and you'll keep moving, because that's what you do, Peter. You don't give up. You were going to die, the doctor of this rust bucket of a ship said. He told us that you were very, very unlikely to make it through the surgery - too many drugs with too little time in between, and too many burns - and that you were extremely lucky to have survived the way here."

"Well, it's not the first time I've died," Peter mutters.

Rocket's dark eyes flick back to him from where they'd been scanning the room. "Almost died, ya mean?"

"Yeah," Peter says, even though he actually said what he meant. "Almost. Sorry. I'm guessing Drax and Groot are outside? You can come in, guys, no unicorns this time."

Drax stomps in first. Peter can see why he wanted him out - his footsteps are heavy, and they make his headache pound - but he's still glad to see the guy.

"I did not see any unicorns last time I was in this room," Drax admits, peering around to make sure there aren't any this time. "But if you did, then I trust your judgement, friend Quill."

Peter half-smiles. "There weren't actually any unicorns here, big guy. I was just hallucinating. Sorry."

"Do not apologise," Drax says, worry filling his eyes. "It is not your fault."

Peter shrugs. "Sure, man. Whatever you say."

Groot comes lumbering in later, and even though he's still growing and is therefore just half his usual height his footsteps are loud and clunky. He's used to either being bigger or smaller, Peter guesses - the Flora Colossus has had a recent growth spurt, so he's a bit unsteady on his legs.

"I am Groot," he says.

"Thanks." Peter answers. "Nice to see you up and about too. Bet you were getting a bit bored of that pot."

Groot shrugs. "I am Groot."

"Yeah," Peter grins. "Well, I can't exactly complain either. You guys rescued me, after all, so it'd be bad form to complain about hurting when all of you must have gone to such lengths -"

"Shut up, Quill." Rocket interrupts, mo doubt picking up on Peter's maybe-not-so-subtle jab (the guardians had rescued Rocket from someone who wanted his fur once and he just complained about a tiny cut he had on his side).

"Where does it hurt?" Gamora asks sharply, eyes raking Peter's body like she's checking for blood.

"Everywhere," Peter replies helpfully.

"Ship's doctor wouldn't let us see ya," Rocket says grumpily. "Said he didn't trust us, or summat."

"So you don't even know where my wounds are?" Peter asks incredulously.

"No," Rocket says frustratedly. "He wouldn't even tell us _that_ much, the dumb fuck."

"Maci has a lot of shields." Peter says defensively. "You just need to get around them. He doesn't trust easily after his mom and dad died - afraid of getting his heart broken again, I guess."

Gamora's drifted back over to his bedside - actually, the only guardian not standing next to Peter's bed is Rocket, and that's only because he's sitting on it - and he tries not to squirm under her scrutiny.

"You really like these people, don't you?" She says after a heartbeat.

Four pairs of eyes lock onto Peter's face. He rolls his eyes. "Duh. I grew up with them -"

"They threatened to _eat_ you." Gamora interrupts.

"Yeah, but none of them meant it. Well, maybe Horuz, but that's only because I vomited on him during my first space storm -"

"They hit you."

"Nah, that's a front." Peter smiles. "What happens if someone who's completely unbeatable suddenly has a very squishy Terran as a weak point. I would've been kidnapped left, right, and center."

"So we are expected to believe that you were not abused your whole childhood, even when all evidence points to the contrary?" Drax says.

"Yes," Peter says, and snorts. "I know it sounds pretty implausible, but -"

"Implausible's one word for it," Rocket laughs incredulously. "You have scars on your ankles and wrists - don't deny it, I've seen them - and they look like they're from too-tight cuffs -"

Peter starts to laugh so hard he cries. His ribs hurt, and bending forwards like he is makes the massive burn on his back send bolts of white-hot agony down his spine like it's nobody's business, but in this moment he's happy, and the elation he feels far outweighs the pain.  
**  
**@#£% &**&%£#@  
  
Peter would say he took a couple of days to recover, but he knows it's more like a week and a half. He also wants to say that he was compliant and nice to everyone, but he knows that he gets crabby when he's in pain (and this time is certainly no exception) and that he bit Maci when the doctor had tried to change his bandages and Peter had been sleeping. In addition, he wants to say that he wasn't irritating in the slightest, but he know that insisting you can get up and then not even being able to sit up without hissing and laying back down from the pain isn't very endearing.

But eventually Peter can stand up (mostly due to a mixture of sheer willpower and his dislike of the neverending itch of cabin fever), and as he gazes down at his dirty, crumpled sheets he realises that he hasn't actually washed properly for about a fortnight.

One hot shower later (thank fuck for hot water on spaceships), Peter's cleaned his own wounds, changed his own bandages, put on fresh, clean clothes, and managed to stumble over to the door.

He's tired - bone tired - but he's bored of lying in bed and staring at the patch of ceiling he memorised over twenty years ago, so he's determined to leave the room at least.

Peter walks to the Bridge on autopilot - he's made this journey a thousand times before (he even knows the way via the vents, although that's irrelevant right now), and he knows the corridors of the Eclector like the back of his hand, so it's easy to avoid other Ravagers.

Peter clocks a flash of green, striding back the way he's just come. He peers around the corner (carefully, after checking to see if anyone's coming) to see Gamora practically jogging down the corner, one hand overflowing with bandages and the other holding a bowl which is no doubt full of antiseptic.  
__  
Not going back there, then, Peter thinks, pivoting one hundred and eighty degrees on one foot to set himself back on track and then setting off for the Bridge again, this time taking even more precautions to avoid people.  
**  
**@#£% &**&%£#@  
  
". . . steer us further towards the Undiloat asteroid belt, would ya, there's a bar in there w'th alcohol strong enough t'knock a man back thirty paces an' I want t'see 'f Quill can still hold his drink."

Peter sidles up behind Yondu's chair as he's speaking, holding a silencing finger to his lips in an effort to stop the Bridge and Nav crews' sniggering. He leans over the back of the captain's pilot chair carefully (blatantly ignoring the sharp, awful pain the movement causes), slowly and steadily inching a hand over the top of it and letting it hover over Yondu's implant.

Peter drums his fingers once on top of it, hard, and says, "But I'm injured, Yondu. Surely I can't drink?"

Yondu huffs, relaxing muscles that had tensed at the very first tap of Peter's fingertips. "Yer lucky I didn't whistle, boy."

"Mhmmm." Peter strolls around the side of Yondu's chair so that the Centaurion can appreciate his unimpressed expression better. "Your frill thing stopped seeing me as a threat about, uh. . . two decades ago, one week after you stole me."

Yondu grumbles something that sounds like _there're so many things wrong with that sentence I don't know where to start_ and shoves Peter's elbow off the back of his chair _("Gerroff.")._

Peter plasters a hand over his heart and tries his best to look wounded. "I'm hurt, Yondu, I really am. I thought you loved me -"

"Yeah, yeah, I wound you to your very soul and all that," Yondu waves one hand dismissively. "That trick stopped working fifteen years ago, when the crew _finally_ realised that being mean to a Terran didn't actually physically hurt them."

Peter lets out a gusty sigh, leaning on Yondu's chair without thinking about it and remembering the handful of years he'd had a crew of battle-hardened space pirates - some of which had killed hundreds of men - wrapped around his little finger. "Those were good times," he says cheerfully.

A couple of Ravagers on the Nav shift shiver at the memory of it. Peter's offended.

"So," Yondu says in his _pay attention to me Peter or you're gonna be scrubbing the floor until your fingers are worn away (just kidding please stop crying)_ voice as he pushes Peter's elbow off of the backrest of his chest _again._ "How'd you give your team the slip?"

"I woke up and there was nobody there," Peter says plainly. "So I took a shower and came here. Where are we, anyway?"

"Hoag's ring galaxy, or summat like that," Yondu says offhandedly. "Don't exactly matter, though, we ain't stopping an' playing tourist."

Peter hums. His eyes are fixed on the stars out of the large window, and his mind is elsewhere. He can see all sorts from here, next to Yondu - dying stars and stars being born and the occasional rouge comet. The captain and the first mate definitely have a better view than the Navs do.

Yondu's big blue hand waves in front of Peter's face, and he snaps out of his thoughts just in time to hear "You okay, boy?"

"Just think about it," Peter whispers so the Bridge crew can't hear. "The sky, the universe, space. . . it'll never look exactly like this again. We're looking out at a view that nobody's ever seen before, and nobody ever stops running the rat race long enough to just _look."_

Yondu's red eyes slide to the left as he looks out of the window. Peter knows he just sees the universe - galaxies and planets and stars and black holes, no big deal - but he also knows that his words have made the Ravager pause and see the magic a little.

"It's so pretty." Peter breathes.

Yondu snorts, shoving Peter away from his chair, but his eyes have a certain shine to them that tells him he's seen a little bit and more. "Yer a massive sap. I didn't bring you up to be like this."

"You didn't bring me up at all," Peter grins, rubbing his forearm subconsciously. He sees Yondu's eyes drift to it and stops abruptly. "Sorry. I didn't realise I was -"

Yondu grabs his arm, pulls up the sleeve with barely softened haste, and hisses at the sight of the raised, red shape there. "It's likely to scar," he says, spitting the word _scar_ like it's a curse. "But at least. . ."

"At least what?" Peter asks curiously, attempting to yank his arm out of the captain's grip to no avail.

Yondu taps the brand mark very gently (it still hurts, but Peter's not going to say anything, so). "I looked up this symbol, just in case it meant anything that would lead me to somebody I could kill. But it's not related to the guy who tortured you at all bar the fact that he's the one who put it on you. It's actually a symbol for something."

"A symbol for what?"

"Honesty."

Peter snorts, and then bursts out laughing. It can't be true. Why would Creeps brand the symbol for honesty into Peter's forearm -

He stops laughing.

"Oh, fuck."  
**  
**@#£% &**&%£#@  
  
"Okay," Kraglin says, tapping one finger on the table rapidly. "So far, we know that the burn was 'tended to work w'th summat much stronger t'make Peter tell the truth, but branding a mark on somebody don't do much more than _compel_ 'em to tell the truth. It basically just upgrades the urge t'be honest, an' only a little bit at that. It fades after a month."

"The mark fades?" Peter asks hopefully.

Kraglin shakes his head apologetically. "No, yer stuck w'th that. But what your scar _will_ do is, basically, turn into a tattoo - the scar that would be left over'll start turning any colour ya want it to. Fer example, if ya wanted it silvery, like the colour of the. . . whatever the things Gamora has on 'er cheekbones are, then you'd just have t'think _I wish m'scar was silver_ and it'd turn that colour. If you can picture the colour then s'much more accurate."

Peter's mouth curves up into a smile. "So I can hide it if I want to?"

"Yes." Kraglin smiles. "Ya can hide it if ya want to."

"I wanna know what it was partnered with," Rocket says. There's a funny sort of tension in his voice, like he's holding himself back. When Peter glances his way he sees black eyes full of a blazing anger.

Yondu nods in agreement. "Kraglin said that it was _partnered with summat much stronger._ Spill, Peter."

The Terran's mouth works as he thinks of how best to put it. The other members of the guardians of the galaxy are there, sitting civilly around the table with Yondu and Kraglin (which is surprising in itself), and everyone's going to explode when he tells them it was truth serum. Peter knows every single person on the Eclector - every Ravager and all four other guardians - disapproves of the use of truth serums, so there isn't really any way to break it gently.

Peter decides on the cold, hard truth. "Creeps used truth serum -"

The room just fucking _explodes,_ so much so that Peter's actually taken aback, because _dude,_ he's okay now, right?

"Truth serums are painful as all hell!" Rocket screeches, Groot hollering his customary _I AM GROOT_ in furious agreement. "You must have been fucking _hurting,_ Pete, why didn't you _say something -"_

Gamora shouts over the top of him. "You must _still_ be hurting, truth serums cause intense migraines for _days_ afterwards -"

"Friend Quill, you must inform us of these things _earlier,_ from what these two are saying truth serums sound extremely deadly, a very worthy foe -"  
_  
"Quill, what the hell're you playin' at!?"_ Yondu hollers, actually jumping onto the table, dragging Kraglin up with him.

Kraglin doesn't seem to care. _"Yer a massive fucking idiot -"_

Peter holds up placating hands. "C'mon, guys, I'm fi-"

Rocket leaps up onto the table too. Peter tries not to roll his eyes as the raccoon scurries over and points at him threateningly. "If that sentence was s'posed to be _I'm fine_ then we are going to have _serious fucking words -"_

"Relax, raccoon, it'll be fine. I'll get over it. The migraines should stop around the same time as the tattoo-scar thing stops working, right? So I'll just grin and bear it for this week, and then Bob's your uncle, I'm all good."

Drax frowns. "I do not understand. I thought you did not have any relatives?"

Peter makes his _eeehhhhhh you're half right_ face. "That's an iffy subject. Anybody I had blood ties with on Terra probably think I'm dead by now, and I don't know who they are anyway. But I still have a family."

Drax looks like he wants to ask another question, but then Yondu opens his mouth and the Destroyer falls silent.

"Ya need ta tell us everything, I think, an' then yer goin' ta bed, kiddo."

"Sure, _Dad."_

Yondu blusters and blushes, but Peter just grins.

He opens his mouth and begins to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realised that all of my fics on here were published in December. I must seem really efficient to all of you. What lies. Don't believe them.
> 
> The scar-tattoo thing may become a recurring theme. Hmmmmm. . .


	3. Peter May Or May Not Have Cabin Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter remembers something he left behind and avoids medical attention because he's stubborn and, really, c'mon, guys, it's just a couple of burns, it's not like he's in a coma with four broken limbs. He can do stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took aaaaages (well, not as long as some of my other stories. . . count yourselves lucky, peasants!) but I had a busy week, okay?
> 
> Don't look at me like that.
> 
> Also - Google "dead spaces" before you read this. They're awesome, and while there is some explaining from Peter it's pretty shoddy and doesn't do them enough justice. I found out about dead spaces via the Avengers fandom (one word - Clint) and I have no idea why, but I love the idea of Peter having little nests in all of the different dead spaces in the ship. That will be mentioned, by the way. *wiggles eyebrows excitedly*

Peter flops back on his bed with a sigh, allowing a loud groan of pain to escape him when his back makes his arms shake from the intense agony.

He's alone. He can suck it up and deal when he's around other people - don't need them worrying any more than they are, which is already too much as far as Peter's concerned - but when it's just him he can scream (well, maybe not that - too loud) and curse all he likes.

It's a deal he made with himself a long, long time ago - all the way back when his mom was sick and he didn't want his grandparents to have to worry about the fact that he was being bullied, or fuss over his grazes and bruises and Chinese burns on top of her - and he's stuck with it ever since.

It's a good deal. Peter likes it.

He smiles up at the ceiling. One week. One week of constant migraines, one week of hiding pain whenever he makes too sharp a movement, one week of agonising burns that are slowly healing.

One week.

He can deal with that.  
 **  
@#£% &**&%£#@  
**  
Peter can't deal with that - not like this, anyway.

Everyone's treating him like he's made of glass. He's not allowed to _do_ anything, even leave his room - Groot's planted (planted, ha) himself outside Peter's room, and he stretches a new branch across the doorway every time he tries to leave. There are only so many times you can pace the same room without getting bored.

Peter huffs and stands up from where he'd been splayed in the middle of the floor, starting yet another lap of the room. Groot hums from outside, but that noise stopped being comforting hours ago, and Peter's situation hasn't exactly changed since.

He stops next to his desk and runs his hands down his face tiredly. He's supposed to be sleeping, resting - his constant pacing isn't exactly the best thing for the burns on the soles of his feet - but he's done that thing where he goes straight through _too exhausted to be any use/dozing off right here if you don't mind please and fucking thank you_ and has landed smack-bam in the middle of _I'm too tired to sleep don't ask me how that works because I don't know/intense, inexplicable insomnia._

Peter sits down on the side of his bed and stares blankly at the wall opposite. There's no way to get past Groot, and he's pretty sure Rocket's there too, either asleep or planning a sneaky ambush if/when Peter tries to escape and somehow manages to evade the Flora Colossus, who seems to take pleasure in wrapping vines around the Terran's stomach every time he picks him up to plonk him back in his room.

Peter doesn't blink for a long time as he mulls over what he could have done to earn Groot's dislike. He hasn't killed any trees, ever - just enemies like Ronan's minions or people who are 100% dicks - and neither has he destroyed planets or murdered children or stolen candy from babies. It doesn't make sense.

The guardian mutters a curse and stands up again. Thinking about that sort of thing isn't getting him anywhere but into a dangerous downwards spiral.

It's just that there's nothing to _do._ When Yondu first gave him the Milano, he transferred the majority of his stuff to it, so he doesn't have his sketchpads or his pencils or his books. He can't access his laser, to cut a hole in the wall so he can escape to a room next to his. He can't get to the L'orb Yondu gave him for his fourteenth birthday.

Peter smiles at the memory. Yondu had been flustered and jumpy all day, and Kraglin had only laughed when Peter asked why.  
 _  
Yondu had already walked up to him many times that day before shaking his head, blushing, and walking off with a small curse, so Peter was both curious and exasperated by the time he actually got round to giving him his present._

_"Here," Yondu said as he thrust an oddly shaped package in Peter's face, cheeks stained a darker blue than the rest of his skin._

_Peter took the gift and turned it over in his hands curiously. It seemed to be a sphere of some sort, bigger than his head and maybe forty-five centimetres in diameter, with what Peter assumed was a base engulfing one section._

_"Unwrap it," Yondu muttered, "before I regret givin' it t'ya."_

_Peter frowned up at him slightly before tearing open the plain black paper. Inside was a creamy-white orb with spindly legs so you could put it on a table if you wanted to. The legs had brackets where they attached to the orb - Peter assumed that it was so you could take them off if you wanted to._

_It was pretty, in a plain sort of way, but seemed completely useless otherwise._

_"Thank you," Peter said hesitantly. "It's. . . interesting."_

_Yondu snorted and sat down on the floor opposite Peter unceremoniously. "Put it on the floor 'tween us," he'd said, and Peter had obeyed. "S'a L'orb. It'll show ya any planet ya want - jus' say the name an' it'll show it - it can let off any settin' of light ya want, from a blindin' bright light t'a dim nightlight one, an' if ya touch it when yer not usin' it the bits ya touched turn pretty colours. An' I linked it t'ya, so only you c'n see it, but you can include others if ya want ta."_

_Peter remembers staring at Yondu with wide, disbelieving eyes. This was. . . amazing, incredible, **awesome.**_

_"What do you want in return?" Peter said warily. They're Ravagers, the two of them - ain't nothing free in any world unless it's water, an' even then you have to pay for it sometimes, so it doesn't really count._

_Yondu looked offended. "Me? Nah, I don' want nothin'. This here. . . this is yer birthday present. Happy birthday, an' all that."_

_His offended expression turned alarmed after Peter just stared blankly at him._

_"Terra does have birthdays, righ'?" The captain asked. "Y'know? Celebratory day of yer bein' expelled from yer mother's uterus?"_

_Peter wrinkled his nose. "That's a disgusting way of putting it. But yes, we have birthdays on Terra."_

_He hesitated a moment, eyes transferring to the L'orb, sitting on a bed of crumpled wrapping paper between the two._

_"And. . . thanks."_

_Yondu rubs the back of his neck and tries to hide a blush._

_"Yer welcome."  
_  
Yeah, he wishes he could have his L'orb. But that's sitting next to his bed, on his desk, and it's not like he can teleport to get it.

An idea hits him like a slap in the face. He may have transferred most of his stuff onto the Milano, but he didn't realise he wasn't coming back that time he left on a mission and then just. . . never came back.

Peter sighs. He'd gone out for a simple bounty, but it had been a trap, and since he'd been adverse to leading the Skrull back to the Eclector (they had enough firepower to blow up a planet, and the Ravagers' home ship wasn't exactly a small target) he'd flown as fast as he could in the other direction. The Ravagers, not able to contact him (he didn't notice their calls, too busy dodging gunfire) or able to find his body, had thought he was dead and eventually left, silently mourning him in the weird way they had.

But his little envelope should still be here; it should still be where he'd hidden it the last time he'd got it out.

He rushes to his bed (pain in his feet) and lifts up the mattress (pain in his arms), eyes scanning the metal carefully. He's looking for the little latch, because even though he won't be able to see it very easily it's gonna be a hell of a lot easier than looking for the door itself, into which a thirteen-year-old Peter carefully built nanotech that would make it invisible.

He finds it - finally - and opens it to see familiar yellowed paper. He pulls it out and dusts it off (not like there's actually any on there - it's a sealed space, c'mon, guys, no dust mites are going to be getting in there any time soon), letting his mattress down and plonking his ass onto it once it's settled.

Peter stares down at his mother's neat, loopy handwriting, tracing the words _For Peter_ for the thousandth time. He slides a finger under the flap of the envelope and pulls the things inside out as gently as he can, watching with a small smile as two photographs, a letter, and a handful of memories in paper form slide onto his lap.

He starts with the photographs, like he always does.

The first one's of her from when she was quite heavily pregnant with Peter. She's got thick, wavy, rich brown hair that's being tossed around by the wind, and she's waving with one hand while resting the other on Peter The Bump. There's a wide smile on her face, and the sea churning away in the background. His mom's wearing a black and white striped shirt with a black jacket over the top and dark jeans.

The second one's of her and Peter, taken a handful of weeks before she got sick. They're leaning their heads together, her brown hair mixing slightly with his reddish blond, and her smile is blinding this time. Comparing her smile to Peter's is like comparing a lightbulb to a star. She looks happier than she does in the other photo, even though she's got the beginnings of bags under her eyes and her previously youthful face has the start of a few wrinkles.

Peter smiles sadly, nostalgically, strokes her face with one finger (it doesn't feel creepy, just like he's refreshing his memories of her), and puts the two photos to one side.

He picks up the letter next. He's careful with it, because this has only ever been read by him, and it was written so that it's only for him, and it feels so much like his mother it makes him want to cry.  
 _  
Dear my little Star-Lord,_

_I love you. If you're reading this, then I've gone up to the spirit in the sky (I'm sorry, sweetie), so let me just say first that I love you. I always did, and I always will. I'm proud of you. I'm behind you in whatever you choose to do, and when it's your time to kick the bucket I'll be there for you, holding out my hand in the hopes you'll take it and we can catch up._

_I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. You're my shining star, my love, and you're the thing that keeps me sane in this world where everyone's too obsessed about the little things and therefore overlook the big things. You appreciate both, and you point them out to me when I almost miss them. There's a saying, - something like **appreciate every small thing, for someday you might look back and realise they were the big things**_ \- and you always seem like the personified version of that to me.

You're the best thing that ever happened to me, Petie, and your dumbass father doesn't know what he's missing out on by not sticking around.

There's a part here that's crossed out, but Peter can still read it:  
 _  
Here's the part where I would usually smile wistfully and talk about how amazing your father was, but I'm not going to do that - actually, I'm going to do the opposite, because your father doesn't deserve that. He's not. . . he's not human, Petie, and he's barely got any shreds of humanity left.  
_  
Peter smiles. He knows it off by heart, this letter, and he thought about this crossed-out bit when he found out he wasn't fully human. The letter continues normally with:  
 _  
I don't want you to attend my funeral, honey. That's not the way I want to be mourned. When everyone else goes, I want you to run to our den in the woods and I want you to curl up in my chair and think of all of our good times together - the fairs we went to, the times when we marathoned Doctor Who from nine in the morning until midnight. I know you don't like to cry in public - and you're strong, my little Star-Lord, so you would just hold it all in until you exploded - so I want you to cry there, in the safety of our den, with the trees above you and the wooden walls of the den we built together around you._

_I want you to remember how strong you are, and I want you to go on the adventures we always talked about. I want you to travel the world, to touch buildings every time you come to a new place, because that's what I always did and shouldn't it be a tradition, of sorts?_

_But enough of that. I'm not wasting my last words to you rambling about adventures and traditions, as romantic as that sounds._

_I was so happy with you, Petie. Remember that. It's not your fault I've died - it's the cancer's fault, and that's not anything anyone can change - and it's inevitable that one of us is going to die before the other, anyway. I think the quote **if you live to be a hundred, I hope I live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you** applies here surprisingly well._

_The pen's slipping from my fingers, the nurses are giving me strange looks - apparently it's weird that I'm writing a letter to you and not just addressing you in my will. I bet their lives are boring as all hell - and you're due to come here soon, so I'll have to wrap this up, even though there's so much more I want to say._

_I love you. I'm proud of you. I believe in you._

_My little Star-Lord._

_Hugs and love, with no regrets other than not being able to watch you grow up,_

_Mom.  
_  
Peter sniffs with a shaky smile, wiping a few tears away before setting the letter aside, too, carefully placing it on top of the photographs.

The paper memories (for want of a better term) are next. There're a handful of hand-made "coupons" Peter vaguely remembers making for his mom's birthday, things like _one massage, free of charge_ which was essentially just him poking her in the back in random places and _one day free of me being annoying,_ which failed miserably because he didn't think about what he said before he opened his mouth (still doesn't, come to think of it); a little notebook which contains Peter's very first drawings and words - his mom taught him to read and write and draw herself, and she used this book to do most of it in; a couple of dollars; a few leaves Peter had presented her with and she had thought too beautiful to throw away. There are drawings of flowers, written up quotes _("Everyone lives two lives. The second begins when you realise you only have one,"_ and _"Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.")_ , little dog-eared cards holding recipes that Peter knows off by heart but has never had the chance to cook more than once.

Peter smiles again and wipes more tears, but the memories that are engulfing him aren't tinged with sadness or loneliness - just fondness, and nostalgia, and love. He watches his mom's unmoving face in the photographs, appraises his (bad) choice of hairstyle and the way he looks in that one moment, frozen and captured forever in a photo.

"I love you too," Peter whispers, and puts everything back in the envelope, carefully tucking it under his pillow (he's going to come back and get it later) before standing up and walking to the middle of the room.

He wants to get out. He _needs_ to get out. His feet hurt, his back's killing him, and his arms are aching like nobody's business, but he has cabin fever and stubbornness on his side.

The door is (obviously) a no-go, because Groot and Rocket are there and they're not exactly just going to wave him past unless they want something.

He eyes the vent opening to his right. It would just fit him - he's used it many times before - but it'd be painful with his burns. He weighs up his options carefully -

Are those Gamora's footsteps coming down the hall?

Peter blanches, grabs his red leather jacket from where it was hanging on a hook on his bed, and dives for the vents.  
 **  
@#£% &**&%£#@  
**  
It's stuffier and dustier in the vents than he remembers - probably because less than a quarter of the people on the Eclector would fit in them, and nobody but him ever bothered to go in anyway. He used to tidy them up, dumping the random things that collected in certain places in the vents out of the nearest grate (twenty points if he hits someone on the head, thirty if he's not caught, fifty points if they fall over). He never bothered to dust or clean the inside of the vents, but repeated rubbings of leather on metal tends to at least dust it off a bit, so they were always kinda nice-looking on the inside.

Peter smothers a cough. He knows the whole ship's ventilation system like the back of his hand, including where all of the grates and dead spaces (very, very often, the person who designs something gets the vents' measurements a bit wrong, thus creating what's universally called a "dead space" - basically a point where vents meet but don't meet properly, so overlap and create a large, empty square) are, and therefore Peter's uncomfortably aware of how he's right above the mess hall at the moment.

He can hear people speaking - the sort of background chatter Peter's always found comforting (in a weird sort of way) - and if he concentrates he can catch the faint smell of what Italox, the cook (duh), is cooking for dinner (is it dinner? What time is it?), although taking dust-filled breaths in through his nose is most likely not a good way to stay in stealth mode.

Peter crawls on. He fixes a couple of panels, the damage ranging from _it's just a little loose, no biggie_ bad to _it's hanging off of the ceiling in strips how did it even get like this seriously it looks like one of those Terran dinosaur things clawed it and then gnawed on it what the fuck happened to this poor panel_ bad, and manages to knock Kraglin over with someone's lost boot (fifty points!). He ignores the way his arm wounds twinge as a result of him pulling himself forward relentlessly and he glosses over the way his bare feet ache from being in the same (painful) position for so long.

Peter huffs quietly. He's come to a fork - well, a rough fork - and he can go two ways: left, towards the Bridge (cool, dry, very unlikely to be _un_ disturbed), or right, where he'll soon come to another fork that'll take him either towards Yondu's room (warm, dry, very unlikely to be disturbed) or to the engine rooms (also warm, also dry, also very unlikely to be disturbed).

It's not like the decision is _hard._

Peter goes right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how long or good that was, but I'm tired (I'm always tired, no biggie, I can deal, and I've dealt with insomnia since I was, like, ten, so I'm used to it) and I have school tomorrow, so that's probably all the productive writer-y shit you're getting out of me tonight.
> 
> And, just out of curiosity, d'you think he's going to go to Yondu's room or the engine rooms?


	4. Decision Time (Or, Announcements Of A Long-Winded Nature)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last fork was an easy decision. This one?
> 
> Not so much.
> 
> Peter flips between the options like he's stuck on a loop. _Engine room, Yondu's room. Engine room, Yondu's room._
> 
> _Which one?_
> 
> ///
> 
> The time has come to make a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S ALIVE, BITCHES. AND GUESS WHO'S BACK WITH A BANG?
> 
> Spoiler alert: it's me.
> 
> Don't get too excited.

The last fork was an easy decision. This one?

Not so much.

Peter flips between the options like he's stuck on a loop. _Engine room, Yondu's room. Engine room, Yondu's room._

_Which one?_

Yondu's room is relatively undisturbed, most of the day, wary respect doing a good job of keeping crew members out, but it's not exactly a permanent hideaway. Yondu will wind up there, sooner or later, and even then that's providing nobody checks just in case.

The engine rooms, on the other hand. They're warm, expansive; Peter can curl up in the rafters, where the heat has pooled by the ceiling. He knows how to get in through the vents, where nobody will see unless they're looking up at just the right spot, which none of the engine workers do anyway. Yondu might, maybe Kraglin if Peter's hunch is right, since they know the ship as well as he does (though definitely not the vents, since they're much too big to fit most of it). But that's only when he initially comes in - after that, he knows exactly where you can lie without being seen from below. It's foolproof.

And lonely. Peter may be independent 99.9% of the time, but when he's licking his wounds he prefers to do it with some form of comfort to fall back on, whether it be as significant as being somewhere he feels at home - though being back on the Eclector again isn't going to work nearly as well if he's _locked up_ \- or as simple as quietly slipping his headphones on and playing a mixtape.

Right. He's a Ravager, a Guardian - when did he get this soft?

Peter shakes his head, smears a stripe of dusty grime across his cheek by accident. He flicks out a leg cautiously in the space, stretching the muscle, and gets a brief burst of white pain shooting across his side as a reward. If the vaguely sluggish trickle he thinks he can feel is any indication, he may have just reopened a wound. Great.

And he's no closer to deciding after all that, either. _Useless._

He eyes the left side of the T-junction. Yondu probably won't want him in his room, regardless of whether he's actually bleeding or not, and there's a stash of food and supplies in the engine rooms somewhere he thinks he might be able to clean up with a little. At the very least, the food won't have gone out of date - some of those Yakrian biscuit things that last for hundreds of years if you keep them dry.

He heaves a sigh, casts a wistful glance the way of the Captain's quarters, and pulls himself towards the engines.

///

Peter is just poking his fingers through the ventilation grate to pry it away when the alarms go off. It's the sound of the internal alarm - he's been found. Well, found _missing._

The engine room crew (four of) tilt their heads a little, listening to it whilst they wait for Yondu to come online and tell them what's gone wrong this time. It's testament to Ravager life that they just look kind of bored. Phee, over in the corner, even yawns as she puts down a heavy spool of metal cable that's about fifteen times Rocket's size.

He pulls his fingers back in slowly and listens to the static of the intercomms starting up. He can hear Rocket and Gamora arguing in the background before Yondu starts to speak, which is quite a feat, actually, considering he begins immediately.

 _"Quill's on the loose."_ is how the announcement gets underway.

Yondu sounds more amused than irritated. Peter's too busy wondering how to feel about the units immediately starting to change hands beneath him to spare it too much thought.

"Told you he's escape in under a week," someone smirks as their workmate pours a handful of units into their cupped palms. Imelda, he thinks her name is.

"Only a week?" Phee teases. "I bet two days."

Peter can't help but notice that she is getting significantly more money. He feels faintly proud of himself for having the kind of reputation that allows for this kind of situation.

"I can't believe it," someone exclaims from across the room. Peter doesn't know their name - they must still be green. No telling how green, though, since it's now over a year since he left. "S'just a squishy Terran, ain' he? How'd he dodge everyone on the ship?"

Never mind.

Phee's head comes up like a shark who's just smelt blood. She even snarls a little. "He ain't just some squishy Terran -"

Yondu inadvertently heads off the first stirrings of a brawl by continuing. _"Now, ya all know as well s'I do that the kid's prolly off lickin' his wounds somewhere by 'imself -"_

Another voice comes on - Drax. _"Quill is not a child. Why do you continually refer to him as such?"_

Peter can picture the exact expression Yondu is going to be making at that sentence. That odd mixture of _you funny in the head, boy?_ and _don't interrupt me, brat_ and _what kinda question's that?_ that he received so many times growing up.

 _"Don' interrupt,"_ Yondu growls, predictably. _"An' if y'do, at leas' do it with a smart question."_

 _"Here's a smart question for ya,"_ Rocket chirps. He sounds pissed off. _"Yer awfully calm about this whole shebang."_

 _"That is not a question,"_ Drax protests. Apparently, despite being fine with Peter going off to 'lick his wounds', a non-question is a step too far.

 _"Don' take that tone w'me, brat,"_ Yondu says, ignoring Drax entirely. His voice is calm but steely.

The distinctive sound of Rocket's gun priming. _"Answer the question."_

A sharp whistle.

Peter closes his eyes and hopes he doesn't have to listen to them kill each other over the damn comms. Especially over _him._ That's just stupid.

Yondu's voice is full of that kind of soft, serious, unspoken threat when he speaks next. _"Could take someone's eye out w'that thing, boy. Put it away."_

 _"Don't ya care, frill-face?"_ Rocket snarls. There is no sound from his gun. _"That's the kid ya raised that yer makin' an announcement about. Don't ya have a single ounce'a remorse?_ Worry?"

 _"Ravagers don' worry, boy,"_ Yondu tells him. A soft slide of leather, miraculously picked up by the comms, as Yondu pushes the nose of Rocket's gun away from his face. _"'specially not over a kid who's always preferred to live life on 'is own terms, healin' up included."_

Of course, Peter thinks. His heart isn't sinking, it's _not._ Little more than small and good for thieving. Of course Yondu's not worrying about him.

 _"He what?"_ another voice says, apparently shocked. Gamora's there, too?

There is a distinct sneer in Yondu's voice next. Peter can picture his face perfectly again, but this time he doesn't want to think about how everyone else will react to it. _"Ye didn' know? Ha. Some -"_

 _"Cap'n,"_ Kraglin interjects. His voice has taken on the stony, authoritative quality that means he's being damn serious and Yondu had better listen else he wants to be stuck with all the bad jobs for the next half-cycle. Imelda, in the room below, makes the same quiet _oooh_ noise she tends to make whenever some kind of argument starts to go down.

Peter's breath stills in his lungs.

Sure enough, Yondu goes quiet. _"Fine,"_ he allows eventually. _"Yeah, he don' like bein' cooped up, I guess. Never did, not when we picked 'im up when he was eight an' locked 'im in his room 'til we could find a translator for 'im. Got inta the vents real quick, didn' find him fer two days, an' it's not like he could understand us yet. Right nuisance, that was, wunnit, Kraglin?"_

Peter remembers that. He'd escaped within three hours, gone through the vents with everything he deemed useful from the room he'd been flung into. Kraglin had found him the next day via a whole-ship scan, curled up in one of the multitude of dead spaces dotted about, and had had to shimmy into the vents with the translator before he would even consider coming out. It hadn't exactly helped matters that Peter had too much experience with bullies, a knife he'd found under the bed, survival instincts, and no idea Kraglin was only trying to get him out.

 _"Damn kid bit me, an' all,"_ Kraglin agrees, apparently thinking the same thing. Yondu snorts like the memory is hilarious.

Peter isn't surprised either of them remember it - it had become infected afterwards, knocked Kraglin off duty for nearly a week. Yondu had held it over Kraglin's head for years, though it wasn't like he could have done much to prevent it in his position. He had waited until Kraglin was recovered, though.

Mostly.

 _There's deadly space-pirate love for you,_ Peter thinks.

The situation at least ended up positively. 

Turn out, Terran mouths are full of bacteria that's lethal to most things in the galaxy. Terrans and Centaurians are the only things that seem to be immune so far, so at least a wildfire reputation like that meant his stuff got taken much less.

"Horuz never did follow through on bitin' him back," Imelda muses. She sends a sharp grin flying Phee's way. "Maybe he never had the guts to figure out'f the rest of 'im's as infectious as his teeth."

Peter's lips twitch. He shifts a little in the vents, starting to transition from uncomfortable to actually being in noticeable pain. Maybe, now that Yondu's sorted out the possibly mutiny-stirring situation with Rocket and the others, he'll sign off the comms, everyone will go back to work, and Peter can finally leave this vent before he sneezes. Or worse.

An almost painstaking pause, and then Yondu snaps, _"Captain, signing off. Git back ta work."_

Lovely.

But Peter's not going to begrudge the opportunity to get out of here. He's been eyeing his nest longingly for several minutes now, and his sneeze is really starting to mount, along with how much of a steady ache his wounds are giving off. If he drags his open wound through any more dust, he runs the risk of _needing_ Gamora to drown him in antiseptic, and that's not exactly Galaxy-Saving material, is it?

Peter sighs faintly. He shouldn't be hurt in the first place. This wouldn't have happened to Gamora, or Drax, or even Rocket - how useless _is_ he?

He shakes his head again to clear it. He can break down into an overdramatic puddle _after_ he's bust out of this damn vent shaft.

His fingers thread through the grate again, and he starts to pull it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My huge thanks to anyone who was waiting literal _years_ for this to update. To you sorry lot, I say:
> 
> _Oh my god. Two years. I'm so sorry. I don't know what drives you, but thank you so much._
> 
> Also, it's my birthday in 21 days and I'm hYPED


End file.
